burned into my brain are these stolen images
by Poisoned Scarlet
Summary: BALLET AU. He wants to capture her music and put it in a box all for himself.
1. act one

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Soul Eater or the lyrics in the title from _Without You_. They belong to Lana Del Rey.

**burned into my brain are these stolen images  
by. **_Poisoned Scarlett_

_act one _

It's coincidental, the manner which he discovers her.

His brothers fiancée gives him a ticket to the show hours before the performance with apologetic eyes and a sheepish laugh. She says she cannot attend but she would not like the ticket to go to waste. Wes had mentioned to her that he liked playwrights and, once upon a time, had a real interest in theater, if only for the orchestra. She says she's sorry she doesn't have a spare and if he does not want to go alone, she could give it to another person. But Soul doesn't make a fuss over the ticket and he assures it's fine, he'll take the ticket (and resell it at the theater for a cheaper price).

He doesn't tell her this but he's sure she can read it in his eyes.

She gives it to him anyway.

He does not resell the ticket, however. Once there, the doors wide open to admit people into the theater, he decides to attend with the thought that at the very least he could walk out if he did not like it. The theater is rather small but elegant, with comfortable seats that recline if he leans back. The walls are awash with deep violet and set up a mysterious atmosphere, numerous torch lamps set up at every corner to offer just enough lighting. The stage swallows up most of the playhouse, its drawn curtains a deep rouge that reminds him of a time in his youth when he peeked through similar drapes, his fingers drumming anxiously on his thigh. He takes a seat near the middle, right beside a couple who whisper between themselves furiously, and settles in for what he expects is a dull show. The curtains are drawn open soon after, spotlights dimming upon center stage, and when the lavish girls begin to file out he tells himself that _at least_ he can enjoy the classical music.

But it's not a dull show.

He notices her first despite the flourish of extravagantly dressed women, starting at the very end and working her way to the front.

She outshines the other dancers, fitting into her pale dress as if she were born for it. She carries something that the others don't, something he feels he can just grasp but turns to smoke at the next instant, and when she opens her eyes, they rapidly become the only thing he can see. She has the slow smile of someone whose seduction is emotional rather than physical. The slight curl of her preciously plump lips is tantalizing in its perfection; it's juicy and red and so delightfully enticing. He can feel his lungs constrict tighter and tighter when they part with her breaths. Electric green orbs encased with sinfully long lashes and the highlight of the porcelain velvet some dare to call skin, he believes she's not real but just a wind-up doll performing pre-set acts of beauty.

But she's not; she's so painfully real in the way she moves and the way she arcs. She tosses her head back and her arms reach above her head, curls of hair made golden by the hot spotlight bouncing by her cheek. She spins, a blinding display of glitter and white, and when she stops, her eyes open again, her smile worms its way under his skin in a way that both infuriates and beguiles him.

He stays until the end.

Then he tells his brother the show was an enormous disappointment as he tucks the ticket for the next showing in his wallet.

* * *

**A/N: **I am pretty much making it my unofficial goal to write _all_ of the AU's for this pairing, sorry.

This is a b-day present for my luff Lueur-de-L'aube! My baby is growing up so fast :P

Just as a warning and for those who are curious, this story _will_ contain smut! That is why it's in the M-rated section lol

_Scarlett._


	2. act two

**burned into my brain are these stolen images  
by. **_Poisoned Scarlett_

_act two_

He cancels with his friends, tells them that he has other things to do and he will accompany them on their run through the town some other day. He sits in the same seat he usually does and flips through the pamphlet they had given him at the box office. He attends her showings whenever he can and he knows it's a problem when he puts off time with his friends for her, a talented ballerina who knows nothing of his existence. But he admits his knowledge of musicals has expanded greatly since that night; he would boldly say that attending these shows have helped him understand theater more than the classes he took in college. So not all is lost. He reads through this shows synopsis idly, not entirely taking in the words since he knows the storyline already. His eyes stray toward the stage, the swath of burgundy curtains that retain old fears.

They remain immobile.

They're late.

"I _knew_ this would happen! Oh, I _told_ them this would happen! We're late!"

"By five minutes," another voice drones, unconcerned.

"It's because Tezca isn't in this show tonight! Everyone has a problem with the man I hired to take over..."

Soul shifts his eyes to the middle-aged woman who is patting her cheek with powder, being careful not to powder the eye patch that covers up her left eye. Beside her, her husband dully asks why he is missing _now_.

"He hurt his hand yesterday," she explains, sympathetic. She pauses just for a second before continuing her touch up. "He told me he was reaching for a box he had stored up in the attic. I guess it was heavier than he thought it would be and it fell on his arm, that poor thing! He's in the hospital right now. I visited him as soon as I heard the news and... he _seemed_ fine."

"Will he be able to play in the next show?"

His wife sends him an aghast look. "Of _course_ not! He fractured his arm, Stein, he'll be out of work for a few weeks at best!" She closes her compact and puts it away in her purse, settling into the seat with an anxious toss of her hair. Soul has seen this woman in the theater numerous times and he has reason to believe she works alongside the crew, given that the times he sat close to her she was always muttering how she would increase their practice schedule, how they needed to fix their postures, or how their choreography was off. He sees nothing wrong with the performances but perhaps she's just attuned to the practice more than he is.

"He was planning on retiring, anyway," she adds, troubled. "But where am I going to find another pianist as good as him? I've interviewed a few but they would never be able to learn all of the songs as well as he has! I'm deciding between two but... I don't like either. One of them has a horrible attitude, too!" She adds, grumpy, and Soul has one of two options at this point.

He can ignore her as he always has or he can offer his services to her and face the burgundy curtains that retain old fears.

"You need a pianist?" Soul asks before he can convince himself otherwise. She looks at him, surprised, but nods her head and retells him the story he already knows, adding in some extra details such as the pay and hours. "I can fill in for him," he offers and the woman hesitates, no doubt skeptical a twenty-something year old can surpass the musical prowess of a fifty year old. Just in case, he adds, "I was admitted into Julliard university for my piano skills and graduated with honors. I'm a prodigy pianist," and the admission leaves a tacky taste in his mouth but the way the woman's eyes light up, as if she has just found a diamond among the rubble, tells him that using the same words his parents have repeated for years has its benefits.

"Julliard, hmm?" Her husband repeats, managing to sound intrigued. "I hear it's difficult to be admitted with skill alone."

Soul shrugs. "I've been playing since I could talk."

"Prodigy! _Oh!_ I really hope you can become apart of our team!" She beams, fishing out a napkin from inside her purse. She jots down a number and an address and hands it to him, her blue eyes wide with delight. "If you're really interested in filling the spot, drop by here tomorrow at your earliest convenience! The dance studio is usually open from eight to ten, so anytime in-between is fine!"

He takes the napkin. It weighs in his hand.

"Yeah, cool. Thanks."

She beams again and excited clapping drowns out her next words. Soul looks towards the stage, the abominable curtains that are being steadily drawn back, and glances at the woman one last time before settling in for another show.


	3. act three

**burned into my brain are these stolen images  
by. **_Poisoned Scarlett_

_act three_

"Perfect, perfect! Oh, it's a blessing that I found you at the time I did! I wouldn't know what to do if I had to go through one more show with that awful pianist!" Marie, as she told him to call her, sighs with relief. She clasps her hands in front of her and looks so absolutely delighted that Soul is glad he decided not to ditch the interview for a game of basketball in the back lot of his apartment.

Soul places his hands on his knees as she frets and praises him, the praises doing nothing more than assuaging the anxiety he walked in with earlier. His piano skills have always been praised, both in his household and in the university, although his private compositions were something of a taboo subject in both respects. He has the talent for reciting even the most difficult pieces of classical music however it has never brought him the joy he knows it should. Instead, it leaves behind an empty feeling; a reminder that spitting back what others have created can only bring him an illusion of self-gratification. What brings him this sense of satisfaction in his life, in his _soul_, are his personal compositions however those have always been badly received, primarily due to their melancholic, often disturbing, nature.

They are also the unfortunate cause for many of his aches and pains growing up.

His parents stifled his drive for his own music when they first heard it and university only worsened things. It had not given him the release it promised it would; it only pressed down his family's title further and further upon him and constantly reminded him of the impossible standards he had to surpass.

He swore off the piano during the second year of university, disgusted with the staff and how absolutely relentless they were with his practice. They treated him like some sort of object, some _thing_ that could be honed and filed and, with enough time, could bring them the same fame his elder brother had brought. He was seen as his brother, not Soul. He was _never_ Soul, he was just Wes 2.0. One time, they had accidentally called him Wes as well. But he was _not_ his brother (they could not be anymore different) and, as such, the last two years of his college life had been wrought with arguments and bitterness as he tried to ignore the yearnings for the piano that had brought him all of this grief in the first place.

He did not graduate Julliard with honors although he _did_ graduate, just not with the honors his parents had hoped for.

But Marie doesn't need to know that.

"The girls will be so happy to know that we found a new pianist!" Marie chirps, bringing him back from his thoughts, and when she points to the doorway, he knows what she is asking.

"Uh, I thought I wasn't going to start until next week...?"

"Oh, well, if you want we can do that! Of course!" Marie flusters, embarrassed because she always gets ahead of herself. "I just, well, the girls are in the next room practicing and it always helps to have the piano accompany them rather than listening to a recording of one! But if you're busy, you don't have to stay!" She assures although the way she looks at him, warily, gives him the idea that rejecting her might not give him the best reputation. She seems to be easily swayed by the actions of others so he shrugs and decides starting his new job early can't hurt.

"Follow me, follow me! We have another piano in the dance room! It's a little old, but it'll do the trick!" Marie leads him down a long stretch of hall that turns right, leading to two large double doors. When she pushes them open, announcing the new addition to the team to the dozens of diligently practicing girls within the room, he knows that he's just landed in a sort of beautiful nirvana for men. There are all sorts of girls in one-piece suits that hug their fit bodies, some stretching past what he believed was physically possible, their hair pulled up in pony-tails and buns and their girlish giggles and laughs echoing in the huge dance room promisingly.

So it's funny how he manages to find _her_ despite all the other pretty girls. She's all the way at the end, kneeling before a girl who sniffles and tries to hide the evidence of her crying from them. Marie doesn't notice her as she presents him to the rest but he notices her, both of them, and how the green-eyed doll pats her on the head and whispers something in her ear. They both stand and the other girl doesn't look as mopey as she did before, her raven black hair sticking out in twin pigtails similar to the green-eyed dolls, although hers is ash blonde and falls limp down her shoulders.

"Soul!" Marie calls and he tears his eyes from the doll. "The piano is over there! I'm not sure if you're familiar with the second number for Swan Lake...?"

There's a pause as he thinks, his eyes returning to the green-eyed doll. He finds her looking back, more curiously than anything, and he darts his eyes away because looking at her isn't helping him remember.

"Where's the sheet music?" He decides to ask and Marie points to the piano immediately. He walks over to it, aware of the numerous eyes that watch him. There are giggles that break out with his every step. For a moment, he thinks his hair must be doing that thing where it spikes up like a haystack, but when he looks in the mirror, he doesn't spy anything wrong with it. When he looks towards the girls, he finds a few of them flushing red and looking anywhere but him. His eyes dart to the green-eyed doll and he finds her watching him clinically now, her arms crossed over her chest and her eyes reflecting nothing of the warmth he had read previously. He looks away when her eyes grow stale with distaste, wondering who stepped on _her_ toes this morning...

"I can play it," he says after he eyeballs the sheets.

"You've played this piece before?" Marie asks, curiously.

"No," he answers and places the sheets back where they belong. "But I can do it." He prepares to sit and start the performance when a voice cuts through the air, sounding more like it belonged in an army camp than in a dance studio.

"_How_ will you be able to play it if you've never played it before?"

"Maka!" Marie squeaks and Soul is pleased to finally have a name to pin on her pretty face.

Soul faces the green-eyed doll named Maka and all her irritation, her arms crossed more fiercely now. She is tiny yet she exudes a no-nonsense aura that warns that his smart-alec ways will not be tolerated under her rule. Although he has a penchant for going against what is normally followed so that's why his next words are nothing less than him and his less-than-glorious self:

"Don't worry about it, pigtails, I've got it," he answers snidely and it only serves to bristle her, her cheeks pinking at the jab at her hairstyle. "Just do what you do best and leave me to mine."

Her eyes narrow and her nose wrinkles and he thinks this is why he has trouble picking up girls, because he can't keep his fucking mouth shut and they can't handle his torrential backlash.

"_Fine_. But I expect you to execute this piece _perfectly_, you hear me?" She commands and he studies her, how she confidently strides to the middle of the room and gives him a look that offers no mercy should he defy her. His throat is a little tight and he wants to look away because the glacial look in her eye reminds him too much of his father. But he doesn't, he holds her gaze, and decides that he will prove himself to her even if he couldn't prove himself to his father.

His eyes harden. "Deal."

So he plays.

His fingers know what keys to hit as his eyes read each and every line on the sheets, never missing a beat even as he switches to the next page. He plays in the manner he had been raised to, the manner that his parents had approved of, the manner which brings back brittle feelings of unsatisfaction and yearning. But it works, this mechanical way of playing his soul, because the next time he looks, his fingers slipping from the keys onto his knees, he looks at her and finds her staring at him in awe. It's worth it even if he finds no pleasure in the music. Just the way her diamond-cut eyes glow with surprise and admiration is enough for him not to mind playing again. The other girls bare similar expressions of amazement and Marie is bursting with glee, clapping her hands furiously and patting herself on the back for her own good luck.

Soul smirks at the green-eyed doll, her cheeks reddening because she catches herself staring seconds too late.

"That good enough for you?" he drawls.

She sticks her head up, her jaw clamped shut. "You're...really good. But you better not mess up! If you do, you can kiss being our pianist goodbye!"

"Sounds fair," his lips curl up and he casts his sights to the piano keys again. His grins slyly, looking up through the fringes of his silver hair. "What if I _never_ mess up? What do I get then?"

"You get to keep your job," she deadpans and he stares at her for a second, wondering if his attempts at flirting were really _that_ bad, when laughter break out among the girls. Maka whips her head towards them, seems to read something he can't, and stiffens, her entire back snapping straight and her face flushing red. It's adorable; he finds himself musing if he can get her that flustered one day.

She looks at him, glares as if this is all his fault, and sharply looks away, commanding order over the girls who giggle and whisper amongst themselves as they eye them both.

"Alright! Breaks over!" Maka shouts, her voice like a whip-lash. Even _he_ straightens up, wary of what she can do if she can stretch like he saw the other girls stretch. "We're going to start from the top!" She looks over at him, regarding him with a smile for the first time since he walked in. He wonders if he passed some sort of test as she nods, the corner of her eyes crinkling with her smile, nothing like the cold front she had displayed previously, and shouts, "Soul, when you're ready!"

He starts from the top.


	4. act four

**burned into my brain are these stolen images  
by. **_Poisoned Scarlett_

_act four _

There is fear.

The first time he is on stage, there is such a harrowing sense of impending disappointment and failure that he unbuttons two buttons on his dress shirt and takes off his blazer because it's too hot on stage all of a sudden, too bright and too loud. The curtains are drawn, an ominous inky black unlike the deep maroon he remembers, and the waxed wood paneled floor rests hard and unforgiving beneath the soles of his shoes. It reminds him too much of his parents estate. Everything does.

His fear begins hours before the performance; it starts with impatience and it follows with aggravation. He avoids most of the girls and scarcely talks to Marie unless it's of absolute importance. He needs only to take his place by the piano meanwhile the girls and other staff hurry to get everything in order. He spends most of the time rereading the sheet music, knowing every single line and staff and musical note on it by the fiftieth time. He doesn't recognize these old habits of folding and folding his sheet music, rolling and unrolling it, of crossing and uncrossing his ankles, until there is only an hour before the performance and it's a hectic mess backstage.

Then it hits him like a brick, these old habits finally dredging up memories of his youth.

He's scared.

He's scared and all he has to do is play the piano; he's practically out of sight for the audience, only his music bleeds through, yet he's so scared it disgusts him.

He watches Maka organize the girls in their respective order, barking out orders and diminishing the chaos enough for the staff to work on the more technical stuff. She has more to fear than him; she's center-stage, the music box ballerina, the green-eyed porcelain doll. She has more to fear yet there is only confidence in her stance, in her tone. Soul turns back to the piano, a baby Steinway actually, and any other time he would have admired it and perhaps belted out a tune for his own amusement. Tonight, he's only reminded of how much weighs on his shoulders. Responsibility hits him like a freight train and he has half a mind to stand up and call it all off because he is not Maka, he is not courageous, and his stomach feels like it's going to come out of his mouth. But one look at Maka, a look she catches and returns with a tiny smile of her own, and he's bolted to the piano bench.

"Soul!" someone shouts. It's Hiro; he works IT for the theater. He's running through the sheets on a clipboard, his walkie-talkie sounding like a malfunctioning radio, as he shouts: "You got two mins—do you have everything ready? Didn't forget anything?"

He jerks a shake in reply, manages to look casual by turning towards the piano before he could respond.

He prepares his sheet music mechanically, his jaw tight and his hands cold.

The burgundy curtains can blend in with shadows now and when the spotlight is set and everything is put in motion, they only become darker still. Soul sees his cue, Hiro waving his hand once, but he freezes up, his hands still above the keys, his mind racing with a plethora of notes and sounds. They don't make any sense; it's discord, it's horrible.

_He doesn't remember._

And just like that, he's nine again and on stage for his first performance ever.

"Soul, you can do it! You're fine!"

Soul looks to find Maka stepping out of her spot, looking at him with those wide green eyes of hers. She smiles at him, ignoring the audience, ignoring the gaping mouths of the staff because she's ruining an otherwise perfect introduction. Her eyes are unlike his father's cold ones and he wonders if he had imagined them that day they first met three weeks ago. There is no way the girl who is looking at him right now can own such frightfully cold eyes, can remind him of his father in any way.

"_Play!_" she shouts and he turns back and he plays, panic drowning into calm which funnels into confidence.

And the curtains that retain old fears are beat for tonight.


	5. act five

**burned into my brain are these stolen images  
by. **_Poisoned Scarlett_

_act five  
_

"Soul? Soul, you bum, _wake up!_"

He startles from his impromptu nap, the key designs etched on his cheek. "Wha—ouch!" He curses when he receives another smack on the head and he glares up at the green-eyed doll that glares right back with her hands set on her hips. It's his fault, really, but she had been going on and _on_ about some business that had absolutely nothing to do with him. She should know better than to expect him to stay awake for it, given that he had already been their pianist for the past few months. He's not a stranger to the shows, he no longer curses as he struggles to keep up with the too-fast way they switch from scene to scene, act to act, _show to show._ He has grown accustomed to it all and the reward for that are naps that to some (mainly Maka) are inappropriate but to him are _just right._

"_What?" _he hisses and she presses her lips together.

"We're starting again! So play!"

"What? How many times are you gonna' practice this piece, it's been thirty already!" He whines but places his fingers over the keys. "Don't you guys know it by now?"

She only rolls her eyes because he already knows the answer to that and walks back to the center of the room. The girls look weary but they don't try to usurp her status as head, resuming their stance and trying not to shake as Maka eyes every single one of them and steps forward to correct their posture if she sees anything wrong.

She's in the process of straightening up Tsugumi's back, the girl pinking because she was the only one who was corrected, when she says, "We're going to do this until we _all_ get it right!" She smiles reassuringly at Tsugumi when she drops her eyes in embarrassment.

"That'll be _never_," he mumbles to himself but starts from the top, running down the entire first act of the Nutcracker, which is their next show as they had decided it would be in the Christmas spirit to do a Christmas-themed show. However, like always, there are many stops in between. It's always like this, starting from the last point until they run down the entire first couple of acts. Maka is flawless in her execution but the stops have more to do with the fact that the other girls mess up. It's not often, they're quite a talented bunch of ballerinas, but there are difficult scenes that Soul notices the other girls fumble with but Maka does not.

In fact, he has never once seen Maka fumble a scene.

"Alright, I think that's enough for the day!" Maka shouts a few hours later, noticing many of the girls were making more and more mistakes. Their exhaustion is visible in their slumped shoulders and the sheen of sweat on their foreheads. "We have two weeks until showtime, girls, we need to get through this act as soon as possible!" As Maka talks, the girls gladly begin to pack up and leave, each one giving their own wave or goodbye at Maka and Soul. Tsugumi walks up to Maka glumly, both of them having a conversation that Soul now knows is more motivational for the down-on-her-luck ballerina, until they are left to themselves again in the dance room. Maka begins to pack next, grabbing her knapsack and hoisting it on her shoulder.

"You practice at home?"

Maka looks at him curiously. "What?"

"I said, do you practice at home?" He's organizing his sheet music as he says this, sparing her a glance. "You told Tsugumi to practice at home so I figure it's because you do it, too." At her raised brow, he clarifies: "You never mess up, not even once. This is supposed to be practice but you know every single step."

"Maybe I'm just a _prodigy_," she slyly mocks. That single word has been attached to him since that day he challenged Maka and she knows only too well how much it grates on his nerves.

Soul scrunches his nose but that doesn't stop him from thumbing to himself, saying, "I hate to break it to you but you're just not as naturally talented as me."

"Naturally talented!" Maka snorts. "Just because you can play any piano piece after looking at it once doesn't make you _naturally talented..._"

He raises a brow. "You sure? It sounds like it."

Maka stifles a giggle. "No, you're not!"

His lip curls up. Flirting with Maka is easier; he doesn't know if it's because she knows he's interested in her or because she's too dense to realize she's actually flirting. Either way, he doesn't question it, and faces her a little better as he drawls: "If I'm not naturally talented, then what must you be?" He tucks the sheets into their portfolio and slips it under his arm. "Born knowing every single step or something?"

"If it were like that, life would be a lot easier."

"So you _do_ practice at home," he smirks.

Maka shakes her head, eyes twinkling. "Not at home! I don't have enough space at home!"

"Then where do you practice?" He asks, quickly adding: "Cuz I know you do."

"Guess!"

"A park?"

"You're not even trying!" She cheeks.

He smirks. "Alright then...your backyard?"

"I live in an apartment, Soul," she snorts. "Guess again!"

"A friends house?" At her shake, he scowls. "I dunno'! Where do ballerinas go to pract..." He stops, staring at her. He can see a slow grin starting to break out on her face, gently illuminating her verdant eyes, brightening up her entire face, and she looks so gorgeous, that slow smile of hers doing things to his heart—"You practice _here? _Weirdo. It's creepy around here," he admits and also admits he's a moron. _Nothing new_, he tells himself dryly.

"It's _not_ creepy! The lights are always on at night and, if they're off, I know where the main light switch is!"

"You come here _at night?_"

"I work early shifts," she explains, "so I have time to practice together with the other girls and alone at night."

"Jeez, that sounds like a lot of work," he mutters as he lets her lead the way to the doorway. "So you come here every day after practice?"

"Yep!"

She has slung a hoodie over herself, not bothering to change out of her black one-piece quite yet. She only changed into her jogging shoes, her pointe shoes tucked safely in her knapsack.

"...Don't you get tired?"

"Mmm," she hums, looking up at him with wide green eyes. She's standing so close to him he can smell her flowery perfume. He can't help his deep inhale, the next step he takes so their shoulders touch. He shadows her; she's so small and delicate-looking yet he knows she can throw him against a wall if she wanted to. "Sometimes I do. But I have to get it right."

He holds her gaze. "You don't _have _to."

"I _do!_" she says fiercely. He's startled by it. "I want to be one of the best like my mama was and the only way I'm going to make that happen is if I practice _more!_ I want to be perfect at this so I can't afford to slack off!" At his surprised face, his parted lips, she flushes and takes a step back, using the sleeves of her hoodie to rub her nose. But he can still see the pink, the way her face grows hot. "My mama was in Broadway," she explains, voice dropping some octaves. "She was one of the best so...now I want to be one of the best, even better than her!"

"...That sounds pretty cool, Maka," he says, finally, and she looks up, hesitantly, but it melts at the sight of his toothy grin. "I think you're gonna' end up being better than your, mom! You're already pretty amazing," he says and, for once, can say he did something _right_ because her eyes light up and her smile is wide.

"I will be!" She shouts, walking backwards down the hall. "Just watch me! Bye, Soul!"

"Later," he rasps, clearing his throat but she's gone before she notices. He stands there for a few more seconds, struggling the emotion that tightens his chest and makes his throat feel full and tight. He rubs his chest, right above his heart, and continues out with a stubborn dust of pink over his cheeks.

She has stolen her way into the spotlight in his heart without even trying.


	6. act six

**burned into my brain are these stolen images  
by. **_Poisoned Scarlett_

_act six  
_

"Soul, can you start from that part?"

"What part?"

"The...that part!" Maka fumbles. Soul gives her a blank stare, raising a brow in a wordless gesture to continue. "Y'know, the one before you start all over again!"

"You mean the fourth _scene?_" Soul drawls, a smirk curling his lips at her blink. "That big brain of yours finally overload with information or what?"

"Sh-shut up! I just forgot the word, that's all!" She flushes, sending him one last dark look before turning back to Tsugumi as Soul starts again. His fingers know what keys to press—these women work him harder than his piano instructor ever had—so he allows his eyes to stray towards the two dames, the one which tries to teach the younger one to seemingly no avail.

Tsugumi is not good at ballet; this is nothing new. But he gives her props for trying and he gives Maka even more props for not losing her temper when Tsugumi messes up the same step six times running. He knows he cannot say the same for himself, he's always had such little patience when it came to teaching, but Maka fits the role for it like a glove: she is patient, offers those encouraging words that raise the younger girls moral enough for her to give it another go. She's thorough and sharp but not meanly, no, there's a softness that runs beneath her firm tone. His fingers press the final key and he lets the sound vibrate through the room as Tsugumi manages to hold the position long enough for Maka to give her the okay.

"You did it!" Maka cheers, beaming when the younger girl breathlessly laughs. "See? I told you you could do it! You just needed a little more practice! You should stay behind with me after classes so you can get ahead and rehearse the parts you have trouble with!"

"I'll try!" Tsugumi eagerly says. "I was planning on switching my work schedule so I can work mornings! If I get it changed, can I...can I stay and practice with you?"

Maka's smile is warm and bright. "Of course! Just give me the heads up if you can!"

"Alright! Thank you, again, for staying and helping me!" She fidgets and meekly adds, "I know I'm not good..."

"No one is ever good from the start," Maka soothes, squeezing her shoulder.

"You are. You were cast as one of the main roles in Madam Arachne's shows! You know how _hard_ it is to get a spot there?"

"I auditioned," Maka corrects. "That doesn't _mean_ I'll be cast, I've just tried out for the role!"

"You will be," Tsugumi smiles, confidently. "You're so good at ballet, Maka, you're perfect!"

The hand on her should slides off at the remark and Tsugumi manages one last grateful goodbye before she scurries away, leaving Maka to mull over her words.

"Hey! How come she gets to stay but I can't?"

"What?" Maka shakes herself from her reverie enough to turn to Soul, who sulks with a childish pout by his piano. He's slouched over it, his cheek resting lazily on his hand as he watches her with the brooding gaze of an upset cat.

"You told her she could stay with you for post-class practice but I can't!"

"She needs help with her steps, Soul," Maka reminds, sharply. "You don't! You can't even dance!"

"I can so!"

Maka pauses and turns to him, her brows raised in idle amusement. "Oh? You can dance? Alright, then," she gestures to the empty floor, grinning smugly when he eyes it with something close to dread. "Show me what you got, Soul! You have the _entire_ floor to yourself!"

"I don't mean, like, _ballet,_" he quickly backpedals. "I meant, waltzing. Ballroom dancing. And sometimes, when I'm drunk enough, I can shuffle."

Maka laughs. "_I_ can shuffle!"

"Get out," he leans forward, decidedly interested. "I wouldn't think so, I mean, your ankle still hurts if you overuse it, right?"

Maka is startled he remembers such a tiny detail, something briefly said when one of the girls brought it up. She smiles brightly because the thought warms her chest. She rolls her ankle out for emphasis. "It only hurts if I do it for a long time. Besides, that happened years ago! My ankles doesn't hurt so much because of the amount of dancing I do in my spare time. But if I stop, it _does_ hurt..." she adds, wryly.

"Wonder why," he mumbles, rather uncomfortable with the idea of Maka in pain. He shrugs the thought off. "So, shuffle."

"I'll shuffle when you dance," she grins slyly.

"Do it first then I'll do it!"

"No, you do it first! _You_ were the one who said you could dance in the first place! You already know _I_ could dance!"

"Not shuffle!"

Maka stomps her foot, hands set on her waist. "Soul..."

"What? I need to see what I'm up against!" He whines.

"So you can make up an excuse and _not_ dance?"

"Yes."

Maka narrows her eyes shrewdly.

He rolls his eyes. "Come off it, I was _kidding_. I even said when I'm drunk enough so, unless you wanna' treat me to a bottle of vodka after this, you ain't gonna' see me dance."

Maka huffs. "Fine. Then _you_ can't come to help me practice after classes!"

"Wha—c'mon, I have nothing to do after this and I'm willing to play the piano for you guys without extra pay! I'm doing overtime for free!" Soul complains. She just hums a silly melody to herself, packing up her things and holding back a smile when he continues his whining. She doesn't want to admit it, not aloud, not so soon, but sometimes Soul can be the cutest thing she has ever seen. He makes her smile wider than she should, makes her laugh louder than she should, and makes her feel like the words can't quite fit in her mouth. It's strange but she likes it, the uncertainty of it all.

"What about waltzing?" Maka offers, halting his string of whines. "I don't know how to do that."

"You don't?" He looks at her strangely. "Seriously?"

"Well, no. I've seen people waltz but I've never tried it myself. It looks easy, though!"

"Easy," he scoffs. "I thought so, too, but it's the most painful thing in the world when your dance partner doesn't know the steps and keeps stepping on your toes..." he trails off, darkly.

"Did that happen to you?"

"More than once," he grimaces. He gets up off the piano and approaches her, holding his hand out. Maka looks at it curiously, her own twitching towards it despite herself. "But I figure I can teach you the basics. You're light on your feet," he grins a little, "it won't hurt too bad. C'mon, I'll lead."

"But there's no music," she argues halfheartedly as she takes his hand, allowing him to lead her to the middle of the room. He shrugs at her, adjusting her posture and placing his hand lightly on her waist. She holds his hand tentatively, feeling awkward and unusually skittish. But she swallows it down, meets his eyes and nods.

"Just follow me, alright? This is a pretty common move," he says as he moves, nudging her to follow. "Put your foot between mine and...yeah, now you're getting it. Keep going for a few more paces, then we'll switch."

She doesn't get it, to be honest. It has nothing to do with his explanations, however inaccurate and unclear they may be, it has more to do with the fact that she her limbs don't cooperate the way they usually do. She's clumsy and awkward and every time her hand squeezes his, more reflexively than consciously, when he squeezes back her heart gallops in her throat and little trembles run down her skin. She tries not to step on him but she does, a lot, and he mutters about soft shoes versus spiked heels and twirls her, ignoring her frantic steps, and the grin he wears when he realizes how hard she's trying to keep up with him makes her want to cry out in frustration and smack and hug him. She settles on the second one, slamming her foot into his shoe although it doesn't hurt as much as she wants it to.

"You're doing fine," he assures and now they're on the other side of the room. She doesn't quite know how they got there, how they breached such a large space in such little time, but he's bringing her closer now, her nose bumping into his chest when she loses her pace. Maka holds his hand tightly, his other like a brand against her waist the further he tours her around the room. Maka hasn't ever realized just how big the room is—or how silent, as her rapid breaths reach her ears and his calm ones make her uncomfortably aware of just who is taking things to another level.

_I think I got it. We can stop now. _But she keeps moving, stepping a little closer, so their chests touch and moving feels more like a uniform motion than the second lag it had been before. It's fluid and awkwardness has dissolved in the waters of harmony and Soul feels nice, like this, pressed against her, his hand warm and big in her own, his breath fanning her forehead, tips of his hair tickling her cheek with every abrupt twirl. There's an impulse to lay her cheek on his chest, feel it rise and fall beneath her, but she ducks her head and counts to ten and the urge is gone and replaced with her usual bravado.

He stops and she comes to a stumbling halt, not expecting it, and when she looks up to ask, he's smirking down at her. Urges come back, make words feel heavy and broken in her throat.

"Who can't dance?" He jeers, leaning down. "Huh? Told you I could dance! You're the one who can't dance this time!"

Words come back, still heavy but not as broken. "I...I caught up eventually!"

"Could still dance," he mumbles to himself and they don't move, still in each others arms, his hand big and warm in her own, his other like a brand against her waist, realization of how big the room is and how quiet it can become making little trembles run down her skin. "Hey, uh, Maka?"

"Yeah?"

"So..." He darts his eyes away from hers. "Can we, y'know..."

She doesn't know what to expect, she really doesn't, but her chest grows all tight and her throat closes off and words are heavy and broken and hopeful on the tip of her tongue.

"...can I help Tsugumi out after classes, too? I can play the piano afterwards, it's cool. Marie doesn't need to pay me for it," he adds quickly and she really hadn't known what to expect but it certainly hadn't been that.

She slips her hand out of his, drops her eyes and ignores the crestfallen ache that's settled in her chest, and steps back and tells him that he can come if he likes, if that's what he really wants. And she packs up, quickly, before he can notice the red on her cheeks and the disappointment in her eyes, and tells him that next time he should teach Tsugumi how to waltz, too.

"Nah, I think you're the only girl I'd teach."

Her heart does that _thump, thump, thump _thing in her chest.

"How come?"

He grins, crookedly. The rooms never been so big, so silent. "When you step on my toes, it doesn't hurt, even when you try."

Those become words she remembers for a long, long time.


	7. act seven, scene one

**burned into my brain are these stolen images  
by. **_Poisoned Scarlett_

_act seven, scene one _

She moves like sex.

He has difficulty focusing on the music sheet that sits on the rest in front of him. He has difficulty moving his hands, fingers second-guessing themselves. His eyes stray to the far right, watching her spin elegantly in the way ballerinas do, with a grace he hasn't seen since his passed mother. Her arms reach above her, the lights bathe her in a soft glow, and he watches fingers pick at the bun at the top of her head. Her hips are full and curve down to long legs that make his hands burn, make his teeth clench to catch his tongue before he licks his lips.

Threads of soft blonde fall down her neck, her shoulder blades, her back. He stops because he has made too many mistakes to bother anymore and she has paused her dance, running her fingers through her hair instead. Her nipples are hard through her shirt, barely concealed by the thin fabric, and it makes his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth when she reaches higher and they perk obediently. The sleeves of her black shirt tighten around her shoulders, lifts to reveal the barest hint of skin by her midriff, and he looks at the piano keys when she meets his eyes through the mirror.

This is not one of his smartest ideas, accompanying her through long nights of vigorous practice. Tsugumi only came for two nights before she stopped, often with the excuse that her boss called her into work. But Maka stays anyway and he stays because he promised to play for her. She also _lets_ him stay and he considers it a privilege to watch her fall, watch her misstep, watch her curse and fist her hands and do it again until she gets it _right. _She lets him be privy to her imperfection yet no matter what she says or what she does, he still can't see it. She reminds him too much of the perseverance he always wished he possessed, the strength and courage to plow through obstacles and obstructions that seem otherwise impossible. She is everything he wished he had been in his youth and now she serves as a reminder that it _is_ possible. That if she can do it, he can do it, and he likes to think of her whenever he feels the urge to give up.

The only reason he regrets staying with her so late at night is because of these moments, when his hands feel like they're too much and his loins ache for the feel of her skin, the heat of _her_. He can't just sit and play like he thought he could, not when just her usual stretches get him all hot and bothered.

"We done for the night?" He gruffs.

"I think I have it down," she says with satisfaction. "One more night of this and we can move onto the next scene!"

He immediately closes the lid on the keys. He picks up the sheet music and organizes it, flicking his eyes to her briefly. She has knelt down to untie the ribbons of her shoes and she carefully removes both and places them neatly beside her. She sits on the floor with her legs bowed and her shoulders hunched, chest rising and falling with a sigh.

"You alright?"

"Tired," she answers, casting a glance at his hands. He shoves them in his pockets as he approaches her. "Don't your fingers get tired from playing the piano so much?"

He shrugs. "I'm used to it. You don't get tired practicing all day?"

"I've been in ballet since I was six," she admits nostalgically. He looks at her and she brings her legs in, wrapping her arms around them. She beckons him down and he kneels. She points at her ankle, the scar that runs around it. "You heard the girls talking about it, right? Well, when I eleven I broke my ankle trying to hold a stance. It was so bad that I had to get surgery, and my mama thought I would never dance again. Rehabilitation was awful," her eyes darken with the memory, "and the doctors told me if I danced, I could permanently cripple myself."

"You're still dancing."

"Something like this isn't going to hold me back!" She smiles confidently and he quirks his lips up as well. "That's why the girls use it as a motivational story! I'll dance until I can't, just like you would play until you couldn't anymore!"

After a second of deliberating her words, he confesses: "I hate the piano."

Maka looks at him with surprise. "But you told me you've been playing since you were a toddler…and you volunteered to play here, with us. Right?"

"I hate the piano," he repeats. "That doesn't mean I'm not _good_ at it. Those are two different things."

"If you hate it then why are you still playing it?"

"Pays good," he shrugs and she presses her lips together, disapprovingly. He straightens up and looks at the door, deciding that now is a good time as ever to tell her what he had been meaning to. "I like to watch you dance. You told me once that you wanted to be perfect at it and, y'know, the...real reason I decided to take up the piano again is because when I first saw you dance," he hesitates here, adamant not to look at her as he speaks. Once he has the words in proper order he continues: "When I first saw you dance, I thought I saw perfection. It was for a second, but I saw it. That's what you have that the others don't. Even if it's just for a split second, I see it every time you dance," he rubs the top of his nose, clearing his throat and regretting his less than cool words right afterwards. He mumbles a quick goodbye and it's when he is halfway out the door that she shouts:

"I like to hear you play, too!"

He turns as the door closes. It's just a slit but he can see her, knelt on the floor with her hair falling down her face, her doll-eyes wide. There is an emotion on her face that reminds him the warmth he always sees when she is performing, something that makes his chest tight and his hands sweat, and the smile she gives him confirms the deepening affection he has for her.

"I don't want you to stop—!" is the last thing he hears before the door slams shut. He deliberates going back inside to tell her that it's different for him; there is no split second of musical perfection, it's all fanciful mimicry. He does not possess the perfection that she does or, rather, the ability to _pursue_ it like she can. That's why he'll stop after she accepts the offer from that famous playhouse in New York. He'll stop because the only reason he started was because of her. He hears rapid footfalls all of a sudden and his head snaps up. He quickly reaches for the door behind him and pulls himself into it just as she opens hers, footfalls running from him until they become faint.

He peers out of the door and finds the hall empty. Soul walks out and closes the door behind him, leaning against it and running his fingers through his hair. It's not right, how hung up he is over her. She hasn't even _left_ yet and he can already feel the needle-like pricks of separation. He's just decided that it's not worth the extra effort to be close to her if she's leaving so soon when his downcast eyes meet familiar pink soft shoes. He snaps his head up, surprised she had figured it out so soon.

"Mak—" but she shushes him, her cheeks an endearing pink. The way she's looking at him, with a determination usually reserved for her performances, only further confuses him. But he stays silent, watching her watch him, and it's only when she takes a step forward that he reacts. He drops his eyes to her hand, which presses into his chest, and when he looks back up, she is confident in the same way she is confident when she guides the girls through the moves of the dance.

"...What're you doing?"

"Just stay still. Don't move!" Her hand goes from his chest to his shoulder, the other following, and then she swallows, nervousness spilling back into her green eyes, and he has a feeling of just _what_ she's going to do. He leans a little closer and she stands on her toes, pecking his cheek quickly but not quickly enough: he moves so their mouths meet and when he jerks back, anticipating a hard whack on his head and maybe a kick in the gut, he holds his breath when she just stares at him, cheeks lit up scarlet.

It's not smooth and it's more than a little awkward but she leans up and he leans down, nose brushing hers, and when he lets her slant her mouth against his everything else just fades into the background.

And then he decides it doesn't matter if she's leaving soon: he'll always be there, waiting, because waiting is something he does best.


	8. Act seven, scene two

**burned into my brain are these stolen images  
by. **_Poisoned Scarlett_

_act seven, scene two _

He realizes very quickly that waiting is something Maka does _not _do best and he thinks that he should have anticipated this.

Her fingers play with his hair, body pressed against him, hips locking with his as she runs her tongue over the seam of his lips. He parts them for her, taking in her tongue, his arm wrapping around her hips, clutching her even closer to him. She moans, a sound that vibrates down his throat and is met with his own. Soul runs his hands down her sides, kisses her open-mouthed and hot, wanting to feel even more of her, wanting to discard the silk black one-piece that has only served as fuel for his desire. His mouth slants against hers and then he does something that makes her heart leap to her throat: his hands massage into her sides, his fingers pressing into her skin until they reach the swell of her breasts. She mews when he runs his fingers around them and she grabs a wrist and pushes it towards an aching nipple, gives a moan of satisfaction when he grabs her breast and gives it a soft squeeze.

"_Soul_," she groans. She reaches behind him and opens the door open, shoving him through it. She manages to shut it before he draws so close she can smell his deodorant, so close she can run her lips over his neck. She dares to lick his jaw, the ache between her thighs growing at his tremble. He holds her behind her neck, pressing their lips together again and invading her mouth with his tongue this time. He allows his hands to see for him, to graze down her perky breasts until he reaches the swell of her hips. He reaches around to grab her rear, to push their hips together until she can feel his length against her. Maka moans, grinding into him, sucking in breath when pleasure spreads through her body like a drug. She lifts a leg, bringing him in closer, her heart in her throat, his cock so intimately close to her that she can feel it with every thrust of his hips.

She doesn't know or quite understand why he has this effect on her. But she doesn't question it, how his mouth saps away all her resistance, her reservations. She leans into his touch instead of pulling away like she's supposed to, like she tells herself she should. She moans into his mouth and melts, snaking her hand under his shirt to touch the muscles that flex as he grinds into her.

The room is dark. It's an adjacent dance room, this one having mirrors on every wall unlike their usual practice room. The floors are wood paneled and gleaming as she pulls him near the wall. It's dark and the only way she can see is from the windows that line the top of the walls. They introduce that ghostly glow of the moon, illuminate his eyes a bright red when she looks at him. She breathes his name, pulling his shirt up his stomach. He obliges, pulling it off himself. Her mouth latches onto the first patch of skin she can, tasting him all the way up to his collarbone and sucking until he curses and buries his fingers in her hair, pulling her away for a second.

"Over here," he grunts and pulls her against the mirror. She squeaks at the cold but it's quickly forgotten when his mouth latches onto her own again, tongue wrapping over hers and doing things that fan that fire she has for him. She slides down the mirror, bringing him down with her, until she is on her knees with him, her hands grabbing the loops of his jeans and tugging. She unbuttons his jeans, unzips them, and when she tugs his jeans down again, this time they _do_ come down, slowly, getting caught on the bulge that aches to break free from the confines of his boxers. She tugs his jeans around it, her hand massaging his cock softly after.

"Wait, are we really gonna'—?"

"Unless you don't want to," she mumbles, kissing his jaw, letting her hand fondle his dick as he lets out a shuddering pant in her ear. "Want to stop?"

"No," he gulps. "Hell no."

She bites her lip in delight, grabbing him from over the silk material of his boxers, wanting to feel him full and hot in her hand and not through clothes.

"Maka," he growls when she dares to reach into the slit of his boxers, giving herself a teasing touch of what's comes, and she giggles into his mouth. But she obliges, pulling his jeans down as far as she can. He kicks them off himself, grabs her and guides her down until she lies flat on her back. He wastes no time kissing her jaw down to her neck, licking her skin and hearing her moan her approval the lower he goes. His hands slip under the straps of her one piece, pulls them down her shoulders and down her chest and stomach until they're down to her strong thighs. She sits up, bends her legs so she can kick the one-piece off, and he grabs hold of one leg beneath the knee, massaging his thumb into the juncture as he kisses her again.

"Soul," she murmurs, opening glazed eyes to look at him. "What..."

"Just follow me," he tells her, pushing her leg towards her until her knee is by her ear. She lets out a tiny grunt, her other leg drawing up so she isn't uncomfortable, and then he lines their hips together, his covered length sliding up her wet slit. She bucks up, gasps, her chest heaves and she thinks there is not enough oxygen in this room, in this entire world, to keep her alive if he continues. His hips thrust vigorously against hers, his name breaks her throat, she throws her head back as she lifts her other leg a little more. Her hands which hold her upright are starting to give but her hips meet his with equal enthusiasm, harder and faster as pleasure begins to build. She wants to rip her panties off, rip his boxers off, expose his long cock to her and push it inside of her, because she truly believes that if he is not inside her within the next few seconds, she will surely burst into flames.

"_Soul_," her voice is hot-velvet, thick and raw as she digs her nails into his shoulder. "_Soul, please._"

"Are you sure?" He lowers her leg so her knees can squeeze his waist instead. He catches his breath, sweat starting to sheen his skin, and the moonlight offers just enough light to see her mussed hair and her bright green eyes. She has eyes that sparkle with every angle of light and even when there is no light, they kindle with an internal fire. She has the preciously curled lips of a girl who knows too much for her age, of a girl who has so much weight on her shoulders, and he wants to make it go away. He wants her to be free, if just for a second, a split second of freedom from the perfection that encases her in its box of rigid standards and expectations. So he crushes their lips together and he pulls off his boxers, pulls down her panties, feels her wet slit against his pulsing shaft and pushes past it, deep into the internal warmth that is all her, _just her_, and catches her moans as she urges him to go faster, to fill her _now _because she needs him _now. _

_"Oh, god, yes," _she cries, her head falling back as he pushes into her. He hisses at just how tight she is, how hot she _feels_, pushing deeper and deeper until he is buried within her at the hilt. There's a second when they both stay still and bask in the glory of being united as fully as they possibly can before he pulls out and thrusts back into her, picking up speed with every thrust. She bites her lip, racks her nails down his shoulder and follows his rhythm the best she can. Eventually she lays down flat, her body rolling against his in a way that only makes him thrust faster.

"Fuck, Maka," he groans, licking his way back into her mouth. "_You feel so good_," he husks and she keens, meeting his hips faster as pleasure starts to blot out her sight. She closes her eyes, her mouth parted because she can't bother to keep her cries to herself, and she is close enough to the edge she can almost taste it. Once she is at the edge looking down, she arches and she comes hard enough that what she thinks is a voiceless cry is actually a pitched scream. Soul's hand actually covers her mouth, his weak shush doing nothing to quiet her, because when he comes it's with the same intensity only his cry really _is_ voiceless, just a strangled choke of her name and a thick stream of gasps and pants and groans before he slumps over weak-boned but the most satisfied he has been in what he can honestly say is _ever_.

"Soul," Maka breathes, gazing up at the ceiling as her heart calms. "I think I saw perfection in you once, too."

His eyes open, his breathing still labored.

"That first time I saw you play," she continues, quietly. Her hands gently play with his hair. "The way your hands moved over the keys, just for a split second, I saw it. You were perfect."

He scoffs but something inside of him cracks at that. He hasn't realized, not until this moment, just how much he has wanted someone to tell him this. He hasn't realized it and he can't decide whether that is a miserable epiphany or a fortunate one yet. Instead, he buries his nose in the crook of her neck, kisses her fluttering pulse and mouths words that make her cheeks feel warm and quiet her hearts aches and fears.


	9. act eight

**burned into my brain are these stolen images  
by. **_Poisoned Scarlett_

_act eight_

He wants to capture her music and put it in a box all for himself.

The curtains that retain his fears no longer induce that anxiety they usually do, no longer make his palms sweat or bring along those feelings of inadequacy. At the moment, the stage is in chaos, staff and dancers alike setting up for the next scene while he merely switches music sheets and waits for his cue. His eyes stray to the center of the stage, where he can spot Maka adjusting the flower in her hair and wiping away any sweat that had gathered on her collarbone. She takes a breath and then she looks at him, catches his stare, and smiles sweetly in the way that makes his heart hurt because it'll only be a matter of time before he won't be privy to her secret little smiles.

Marie is excited about it, crooning that Maka deserves the largest stage the world can offer. Maka had been the only one in over four years to work with renowned director Madam Arachne, Marie had told him excitedly. She had been the _only_ one and with good reason, too. He knows she deserves it more than she thinks she does because perfection is unattainable but she comes close, with split seconds that are indistinguishable from lifetimes for him.

Maka hurries over to him before the show starts, stopping by his piano. "Soul, Marie asked me to tell you to speed it up a little!"

"A little?"

"We're running late tonight!"

He checks his watch. "By two minutes. It's not gonna' kill anyone if we let the audience out _two minutes_ late."

"Well, you know how Marie is," Maka smiles sheepishly. "She likes to be punctual."

"Uncool," he mumbles. "I'm gonna' play like I usually play. I don't need the girls to get thrown out of whack 'cause I'm playing faster."

"They can dance at a faster rate!" Maka defends.

He leans in, looks up, and grins when he notices she has drawn a little closer in response, green eyes softening in the way he hasn't noticed until that night in the dance studio, that night when he saw the warmth she carried for him in her eyes and her hands and her mouth. "But Tsugumi can't. And you gotta' be perfect from here on out, Maka, your admittance depends on it," he reminds her and she draws back at that, her brows creasing. He frowns. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, it's just..." She looks at him and he can't read her, can't understand the sadness she shows, and before he can ask, Hiro is running over to them with his arms flailing. "Oh, it's time!"

He grabs her wrist before she can go. "We'll talk about this later."

She hesitates but nods, letting her hand squeeze his once before hurrying over to her spot as the curtains are drawn.

He turns back to the piano and the music begins again. It goes on like this for the rest of the night, with him taking breaks in between scene changes to crack his back or crack his knuckles. He watches her scramble to get everyone in the correct order, watches her hiss out commands and always look at him directly when it's time. It's usual, nothing out of the ordinary, but this time when the show ends and everything wraps up, there is a coldness in the air that dries his skin and makes every move feel as if he is pushing through a storm. It doesn't help that Maka asks if she could speak to him privately, none of the humor he had previously known visible in her eyes.

"So," he starts once they're outside, rubbing the back of his neck as she stands before him, contemplatively. The silence makes him shift. "What's up?"

"Just give me a second," she tells him.

He arches a brow at her subdued tone but nods, waiting for her to collect her thoughts. There's ice in his ribcage and there's weakness in his gut, like he just ate bad sushi and he doesn't think he'll make it to the nearest toilet. He takes in a slow breath, releases it, and relaxes his jaw because it's starting to ache. The weight he feels can't be explained; no combination of twenty six letters can describe it. Or if they can, he doesn't have the faintest idea of how. That weight inside him takes a plunge when she finally looks at him, determined.

"I'm going to take it, the offer from Arachne!" She tells him words he knew all along but they feel like a blow to his gut when they come from her. Her voice doesn't waver; it's even, confident as she always is. "Arachne said she would pay for my plane ticket and my lodging as well if I accept. I don't have to worry about getting an apartment and I'll be...I'll finally achieve my dream. I'll be where my mama _wanted_ to be when she was my age."

He nods.

She doesn't know what she expected, but it's not this.

"Alright. Cool."

"_Cool?_" Maka repeats with an edge of disbelief, searching his eyes for something, anything. She doesn't find what she's looking for. "That's it? Just _cool?"_

"What _else_ do you want me to say? It's not like I didn't expect this!"

"Excuse me?" She hisses, cold anger flashing through her eyes.

He knows he put his foot in his mouth at the sight. "I didn't mean it like that."

"Then what _did_ you mean? I didn't expect you to be happy about it but I really didn't expect _nothing at all!_ You could at least _pretend_ that you'll miss me!" She spits.

"Don't go sticking words in my mouth. You should know better than to think I _wouldn't _miss you," he says sharply and she presses her lips together, green eyes dark. He sighs. "Look, I always knew this was gonna' happen, since Maire told all of us that you auditioned for the first time. That's why I didn't want to get involved with you. That day at the studio, I had just convinced myself to give up on you because I _knew _you would be accepted. They'd be crazy not to accept you, Maka, you're incredible. But then you had to go..." He growls, frustrated with how his words didn't mesh together like he wants them to. He hopes he doesn't ruin it anymore than he already has. "I could have just been _hung up_ on you if we hadn't done that. I could've gotten over you but now I won't—I _can't!"_

"Yes, you can."

"_No, I can't_."

Maka looks unconvinced.

Soul scowls at her skepticism "No, _I can't. _Y'know how guys always say there's that _one girl _they can't forget, no matter how many more they go through or who they marry? There's always that _one girl_ they'd go back to if they could?" He looks at her, into doll-eyes that will haunt him for lifetimes to come. "That's you. You're that girl."

"...No, I'm not," Maka breaths out a laugh, shaking her head cynically. "No. It's not. It's not me. You'll find someone else and you'll forget about me because that's what happens, Soul, ther_e is never just one_!"

"You can't forget a face like yours," he tells her with an ironic smile. "At least, I can't. I won't."

"Time will make sure of it," she coolly tells him and he snorts.

"Wanna' know a fact?" He asks suddenly and she furrows her brows at the sudden change. "Did you know that the average adult will sleep with an average of five people but will only fall in love twice, sometimes with the same person?" He looks at her and doesn't let her look away."Fun fact for that massive brain of yours."

She gives him a long look, bright green eyes shining under the light of the moon, her jaw tight and her hands bunching the sleeves of her sweater into her fists. And he thinks that it's fine if she doesn't believe it; if she walks away from here thinking he was lying through his teeth. He decides it's fine because maybe it's for the best, if one of them didn't believe it, if it's _her _who didn't because she has purpose and ambition and she is a masterpiece in the making while he is a devil-may-care love-sick fool who only has his sheet music, a dusty piano, and her image burned into his brain. She will always be his midnight answer, his jukebox sweetheart. She will always be his blond-haired ballerina with the princess-cut emerald eyes and a smile sweet like vanilla and it doesn't matter who she thinks he'll end up with, if he'll forget her and move on, she will _always_ live through his deplorable music and mismatched tunes whether she likes it or not.

She darts her eyes away and furiously rubs the back of her hand over her nose, then her wrist covers her eyes. It's a sharp intake of air that makes him realize that the brightness in her eyes was really due to tears and he can honestly say this was _not _what he intended; this was the complete opposite! He was supposed to tell her how he _felt_, not make her _cry!_

"Are you_ crying?_"

"NO!"

"You liar! You're crying!" He runs a hand down his face when she drops her own from hers, revealing tear tracks and misery. "Look, Maka, I didn't mean to make you cry just—_this wasn't supposed to make you cry!_" He hisses, agitatedly running his fingers through his hair. How does he handle crying girls? How does he handle broken wind-up dolls? Who does he need to go to for guidance, who does he need to go to for help? "That was...I didn't wanna' make you cry. That wasn't my intention!"

"What _else_ did you expect?" Maka cries out, incredulously. "You just told me I'd be your...your _only one! You even used a bogus fact!_"

"That is _not_ a bogus fact," he scowls.

"Show me _proof!_"

"I don't have it—look, fuck that, we'll talk about the validity of internet facts later! I don't _know_ what I expected, alright? I just...I needed you to know that before you left. I needed you to know how I felt. So, there. Now you know. It's off my chest and I can keep on living my life," he blows out air, just wanting this night to end already. "...without you."

Maka groans and shakes her head, dropping her face in her hands. "You're not supposed to _say_ that!"

"What, it's the _truth!_"

"But that just makes me want to _stay!_"

"You can't stay just cuz I want you to stay, Maka."

"I _know. _I know this is the opportunity of a lifetime but, Soul..." She sighs, shoulders slumping. She looks at him, forlornly. "So are you."

There's a pregnant pause before he speaks again, words carefully collected this time:

"Arachne won't wait for you but I will. That's why you have to go out there and make a million bucks while I stay here and keep the bed warm for you," he smirks, a weak attempt at humor.

Maka drops her eyes to the ground grimly and wipes away her tears for the boy who has wormed his way into her heart and made her want to believe in love again. She tells herself not to cry because she promised herself to never cry for a boy but this boy is different—this boy has his heart stitched into his music and it echoes through the complicated halls of her heart, hitting the core with painful accuracy.

"I don't love you," she tells him. She breathes out slowly. Here she goes; she's going to tell him. She owes it to him. "But I know I _can _and I want to."

"...Jesus _fucking_ Christ, anymore dramatic? You nearly gave me a heart attack!" Soul snaps and Maka blinks, looking up to find his head tipped back to look at the moon, his fingers digging into his eyes because when she said she didn't love him, he very nearly felt the ground beneath him give out. "So let me get this straight! You don't love me...yet?"

"I kind of do but at the same time I don't."

Soul gives her a candid look. "Can you be anymore complicated?"

She glares. "I can try."

"_Great."_

"Look, I don't love you like you love me," Maka loudly states, deciding she'd break it down for him. "I don't love you so much yet but I _can_, do you understand _now?"_

"Just answer me this," he decides, simply. "Do you love me?" _  
_

"Yes."

"Alright. Cool. Don't say anymore; that's _all _I need to know!" Soul flatly says. "I'm set for the rest of my life."

"That's not funny, Soul," Maka mutters. She sighs and looks sideways, to the backdoor of the theater. She still needs to return and gather her things before they closed down for the night. She looks up at him suddenly, weighing the pros and cons of her next idea. Does she _really_ want to do this? It's already out in the open that they both hold deep feelings for each other. After a second, she decides she might as well take a risk for once in her life. "Can I...spend the night with you?"

"Sure, if you want."

"What about...the week?"

"...I'm cool with that."

"...A month?"

"Maka, where are you going with this?" He asks, warily.

Maka exhales, cheeks reddening. "I just want to be with you for as long as possible before I leave. Can I?"

He snorts out a laugh, ignoring her furious look because his chest feels light and the night chill feels warm to him. "Why couldn't you just say that? Quit complicating everything, s'not cool. You can stay for as long as you _want—_as long as your dad doesn't come breaking down my door, I need my deposit back."

She beams. "Okay!" She steps forward and his hand is already up to meet hers, their fingers tangling together. Perfect. "Let's go buy some take-out while we're at it, too! I haven't eaten anything since lunch time!" she grins endearingly, a smile that lights up where ever she stands. It makes his chest feel tight and his blood thin and his fingers reflexively squeeze hers as if anything less would be wrong.

He thinks the word he's looking for is _adoration _but that's more from him to her, not her to him.

Yet.


	10. act nine

**burned into my brain are these stolen images  
by. **_Poisoned Scarlett_

_act nine _

Her dance always continues in his mind for far longer than the show.

He thinks about this as he lays on the couch in his apartment, the curtains drawn to keep the last tendrils of sunlight from bothering him, his tie askew, and his dress shoes knocked over somewhere under the coffee table. He goes over the last few weeks with her, goes over every lingering kiss and squealing laugh of hers. He thinks about the way the corner of her mouth twitches before she grins and how her lashes flutter against her cheeks as she slumbers. How headlights cut over her pretty face at midnight, how she sits at the edge of the bed drowsily for a second before making her way to the bathroom in the morning. How she wipes her palms on her thighs before she does anything, how she rubs the bridge of her nose with her knuckles or wiggles her toes into socks or scratches the nape her neck when she's stressed or stretches until her back cracks after practice.

There is a bitterness that comes with being the one who waits. There has been nothing he does better than waiting and he knows that things shouldn't be like this for him. He should be more proactive, more confident in himself, do something about it, even, but these thoughts don't help him out of bed in the morning. These thoughts do nothing more but motivate his hand to grab his pillow so he could muffle his groans with it. He's never had that high of a self-esteem, not to mention his ambitions have always been sub-par compared to others. He knows this, he's known this his whole life. He's simply not cut out for the big lights like Maka is, no matter what she says. He's not that type of person, doesn't want to be. Perhaps it's because he grew up with it, watched his brother get sucked into it and feared the changes it brought, but there are people made to be in the light and then there are people made to be in the dark. He is one of those people in the dark, watching it happen and keeping it steady. That is his job and he doesn't complain, likes it even, likes to watch her shine brighter than the stage lights as he guides her along with his music.

He likes to think of himself as practical.

It just becomes a problem when practicality gets in the way of doing the right thing.

"Soul, where did you leave my comb?"

"Bathroom."

"It's not there! I just checked!"

"Check again!"

"No, it's not there!" Her voice grows muffled as she rummages through the drawers. Soul waits patiently and smiles when she releases a cheery _ahah, _returning to her post-shower routine. They had just returned from her going away party at the dance studio. The girls had been a lot more emotional than he thought they would be although he really shouldn't be surprised: for all Maka had shouted at them for, she had been a stupendous instructor, and of course she would be missed dearly. Tsugumi had been appointed the next lead, something the girl grew very pale at and had to sit down for out of shock. Soul was wary about that decision but Maka had faith in the girl so he didn't push it anymore than he had to. Maka had left everything in such order that he wonders if this included himself, too. He figures it did, he already told her he would wait and he promised to, no matter how long it took, no matter the changes the light brought to her. He promised and he was a man of his word.

But there is still a bitterness that comes with being the one who waits.

"What are you staring at?" a sudden rush of violet and pomegranate invades his nose and when he turns, he finds her leaning over the edge of the couch. The wet tips of her hair brush his cheek and her smile is slight but noticeable, enough to light her verdant eyes with _just_ enough warmth. He's come to understand she has degrees of warmth. She has warmth for Tsugumi and her determination, Marie and her motherly fretting, for her passion and art form, for her own mother, and even her father although she shakes her head at him most times. And then she has warmth for _him_, just enough that he knows it's reserved _only_ for him, and he will do everything he can to keep it that way.

This is why his bitterness does not last long.

"I was actually sleeping."

"...with your eyes open?"

"Yeah," he stretches out and she vaults over the couch, landing beside him in a bounce of blonde and cheer. He wraps his arm around her, tucking her under him snugly. "S'a talent."

"You could fall asleep anywhere," she sighs, but she still nuzzles his shoulder. "Especially at the studio."

"It's not my fault it gets boring after an hour."

"You know, if it was any other guy, they'd be thrilled to watch girls stretch," Maka dryly reminds.

He smirks and his limp arm comes alive again, hand groping down her side until he reaches her ticklish spot. "I only wanna' see _one_ girl stretch, _and_..." his smirk becomes a grin when she squeals, trying to writhe out of his grasp. But he holds on tight, letting his hand run down her sides as she shrieks with laughter. "_She'd stretch for me all I want, right?" _He growls playfully in her ear, grabbing her around her waist and sitting her on his lap. She wraps her arm around his neck and pulls herself closely to him, her giggles subduing to a smile that he can feel against his pulse.

"If you'd stretch for me, I'd stretch _more_," she sings coaxingly.

"I don't think you want to see me stretch."

"I do."

"No."

"Soul, please?"

"No, I don't do 'stretching'," he air-quotes loftily and fights down a grin when she scowls.

"You make it sound like you've above stretches!"

"That's because I am—_ow_, alright, I'm not! I just don't _do_ stretching! I haven't since I was in high school, Maka, and I fell asleep half the time..."

"_How_ do you even fall asleep...never mind, I can see it," she sighs. She pushes his arm away and crawls on her knees, sitting herself on his lap instead. Soul watches her spread her palms into a star on his chest, how her hair curls at the tips the longer it's left out of its restraints, the longer it's left out of the contraption she calls a flat-iron. She can see confusion in his eyes but she ignores it in favor of letting her hands slide down his chest, down to his stomach. She wants to remember how he feels, how his chest rises and falls, how his stomach tenses when the pads of her fingers press over it. She wants to remember how he jerks his chin up, keeps his eyes steady on her, always on her, when she lifts his shirt just enough to trace over the trail of white that leads past his jeans. She pulls his shirt back down, leans forward and kisses him full on the mouth, caressing the stubble on his cheek with her hand.

"I like it better when your hair is down," he rasps, clearing his throat right after.

"It's frizzy."

"It's fine," he runs a hand down her head in an affectionate pet and adds, "Your hair is straight enough, Maka, who are you trying to beat? A pole?"

"No!" Maka pouts, running a hand down her hair herself. "It's frizzy and it gets wavy if I don't iron it. A-and I've been thinking about dying it-!"

"No," he interrupts, angling his head so his eyes met her shy ones. "Don't dye your hair, it's fine how it is. I like it."

"But...wouldn't it look better if it were a more, vibrant color?" She tentatively asks. Her fingers fist over strands of her hair self-consciously. "It's such a _plain_ color..."

"What_, e_veryone loves your hair color, Maka. They're always talkin' about it during breaks at the studio, you know that," he frowns, lifting her chin with his finger so she looked at him. She drops her eyes but looks back after a moment, finding truth in his gaze. "Don't ever dye your hair or alter yourself like that 'cause you think it'd make your prettier. You can't be anymore pretty than you already are, anything else would make you.._.less you_." He quickly brings her face to his shoulder before she can ask and lets his fingers find her tickle spots again. He tickles her to get attention off himself, off his next words, off the red that dusts his face and makes his jaw clench and his throat tight, because this is what love does, it makes one vulnerable and horribly, horribly honest. "I love you how you are."

"A-ah, no, stop!" Maka laughs, swatting his hand away. "Soul, stop, I—" She bursts into a squeal of laughter and wiggles off his lap to get away. He grabs her ankle before she can and teases her about it being fat, something she growls at and tries to hit him for. They war for another hour, Maka whining about him not having any weak spots while she had many and most of them she hadn't known herself. He finds another spot right beneath her wrist before she gets tired and curls into a ball to shield herself, even though he knows she's ticklish on her neck and side.

"Did you say something?" She mumbles after she's calmed and curled up comfortably on the couch with her legs on his lap.

"Hm? When?"

"Before, you were going to say something, I saw it," she shifts to look at him.

"Oh. Yeah. Forgot," he lies.

"Oh. Okay."

He tries not to think about her impending flight to New York.

He tries not to think about the mess of facial products in the bathroom, the way she's folded his clothes in the drawers and added her own, the way her laptop sits next to his on the desk, or how he uses her headphones to listen to music at night. He tries not to think about these things because they'll be gone in two days. His bathroom counter will be clean again, his drawers a mess and emptier, his desk will have more room, and he'll no longer have Maka whacking him on the head for taking her headphones again.

"Soul," Maka mumbles, kicking his side. "Change the channel."

"Wanna' watch a movie?"

"No, the History channel!"

"Come the hell on, really?"

"Yes, really! Change it, hurry! The premier of this new Viking show is on in five minutes!"

"Mak_aaaa.._."

"_Change it_," she growls, jabbing her toes into his side.

"Ouch! Okay, fine! But only this show, I wanna' watch a movie before we go to sleep..."

"We'll see!" She giggles at his flat look but he changes the channel, settling in for what he assumes will be another drab documentary. At his broody look, Maka wiggles down a little more and plants her foot in his chest, smiling warmly when he looks at her. At the sight of her smile, his annoyance drains, and he sighs, looking back at the television, massaging her calf.

There is a bitterness that comes with waiting but he is willing to swallow it just to keep her degree of warmth for him.


	11. act ten, finale

**burned into my brain are these stolen images  
by. **_Poisoned Scarlett_

_act ten_

It's a lot lonelier in the dance studio now that Maka is gone.

He idly taps a key on the piano as the girls prepare for another practice session. This time Maka is not leading but rather Tsugumi, who tries her hardest not to look nervous and seems to be reciting the movements under her breath. She shakes her head when she stumbles in her mind and tries harder next time. Soul shifts his eyes back to the piano, cheek resting in his palm, and doesn't say a word the entire time. He plays what he's told, repeats it if need be, and the most he's said in the entire session is _it's my break, be back in ten. _

All of these girls in their pretty ballerina outfits and their made up hair and made up faces start to get on his nerves, especially when they bounce up to him and tell him not to look so glum. They're all imitations, they all have nothing on Maka, and if one of them asks him to smile _one more time,_ he will personally break her self-esteem in seven different places. But he manages to keep his thoughts to himself another day and plays what is required of him. When it's over, he doesn't stay for the coffee and donuts Marie brings for a job well done. He returns to his apartment, drops his coat on the armchair, kicks off his shoes, falls back on his squeaky couch, and tries not to look beside him because she won't be there.

She hasn't been there for a few weeks now.

"Maka?" he answers his cellphone on the second ring, a smile crooking his lips at her jubilant greeting. "What's up?"

But she calls when she can for a few hours in the evening. He has come to anticipate her calls and usually has the phone nearby when the hour draws close. He comforts himself with these calls because they mean that she is not totally gone: she's just on a leave that could take about twenty years, give or take, because Maka is young and strong and he knows that even as a middle-aged, know-it-all, crab she'll be amazing and perfect in the art of dance.

So this cycle repeats for a few more days and it's on the sixth week of Maka's departure that she doesn't call like she said she would. It's fine, by then, because sometimes she doesn't. She's busier before big shows or practice sessions and he knows this. He doesn't think much about it, just slurps up his chow-mein and considers ordering another plate. He's been hitting the gym a lot more with his friend because it's easier than returning to an empty apartment. He can ignore the fact that she's gone when there's a weight above him, threatening to choke him if he loses concentration. But this means eating more to replace what he lost.

He actually _does_ order another plate and decides he won't tell Black Star because he'll flip. He'll start ranting, telling him he won't be able to pack on healthy muscle if he keeps eating junk food every day. Soul doesn't quite care, he doubts Maka would like someone who's completely ripped like his friend. She's always rolled her eyes at the male models and their exaggerated washboard abs and brow-arching triceps. He's just turned on the TV to watch a basketball game when his phone goes off and it's not Black Star asking to place bets.

It's Maka.

It's not like her to call this late.

He answers as he usually would, only this time balancing his empty tray of food in one hand and his wallet and phone in the other. He manages to toss the plate into the bin without making too much of a mess while she greets him happily, only stumbling around her words once. Almost normal, but he knows better. He's picking out the money for the next plate of food and asking what had her so uptight, if Arachne got on her ass for something, when she exhales heavily. He pauses, not liking that sound—nothing good comes from sounds like those, nothing good has ever come from them.

"_Soul, I have something I want to talk to you about,_" she starts. He places his wallet on the table, grips the edge of the table as he asks her what's wrong. _"I have been thinking about this for a long time, so it's not something that spurred out of nowhere. We talked about this, but I think it can work this time!_"

"What can?"

"_I want to know if you'd be willing to move over here. With me."_

There is a pause as he digests her words. It's not that he doesn't appreciate the fact that she misses him enough to ask it, it's that it was something they had discussed about before and had agreed against. It's expensive where she's moved to and he has by no means enough money on him to rent an apartment in the part of the state she currently inhabits. He can call in a few favors, sure, but he doesn't think he has it in him to ask his brother or, god forbid, _his parents_, for money to cover some of his expenses while he puts his degree to justice and finds a good-paying job.

"Maka, we talked about this," he sighs, scrubbing his face with one hand. "No."

"_But you haven't even heard me out!" _

"We argued about this for, like, three hours, _no_. I'm not moving over there! One rent payment there can feed me for four months here. Are you kidding? No. Look, you're coming back eventually and—!"

_"Soul, you know that's BULLSHIT!" _she interrupts, a bitterness he hadn't heard before making itself known. "_I'm practically employed over here, WHEN do you think I'd go back? Permanently? I'd have to drop everything here to go back and you know it! That was just some __stupid__ lie we..." _She doesn't even finish, her words choking up with her own fury and hurt.

"It's a lie now, is that it?"

"_Not a lie, an unfair promise," _she corrects, not about to back down despite his dangerous tone. _"You know this isn't fair." _

"Well, _life _isn't fair!" Soul bites back. "I decided to stay here and wait, isn't that good enough? I can't just drop everything and _go! _You even said it, you're practically employed over there! Same thing with me! I'm _not_ going to New York!" She's silent and he rubs his eyes out. He hadn't meant to hurt her feelings but this conversation always made him lose his cool. "Maka?"

She doesn't answer.

He groans silently. "I didn't mean to yell. That wasn't cool."

_"...You're an __asshole__," _she whispers harshly but he can hear the tears in her words.

He parts his lips, thinks about it. Drops his eyes, rubs away the crease between his brows with his fingers. "...Yeah. I know. I know, I'm sorry. Maka, I really want to go, but I can't. You know that, too."

_"I just want you to stay with me. Here, not six state lines away with some promise that I'll come back one day,"_ she tells him, defeated. The sound of traffic is thick behind her. _"You don't deserve that, to wait that long for me,"_ she adds in a smaller voice. The wind beats against the mic and her soft breathing returns him to the time when she would sleep beside him, body pressed against his, a hand spread over his heart_. "I really did think this through this time, Soul. Lady Arachne needs a pianists for the morning shows because she's tired of the one she currently has. He's been giving her a lot of grief recently, she's thinking about replacing him. I_ _know it's a long shot and Arachne might not even hire you but...but you're __amazing__ with the piano and I __know__ that if you came and played for her, you'd be hired! I know you can do it!" _

He parts his lips after a second, already shaking his head, but it's as if she's here standing before him, watching him:

_"I know you can do it, Soul,"_ she says, earnestly. _"And I know I'm asking for a lot. I'm asking for you to come all the way to New York to try out for something that might not even fall through but...Soul,"_ She takes a breath, a static shudder through the phone. Despite the traffic that rushes in the background, her voice is crystal clear. "_For the longest time, my muse had been my mother and how she danced. She had been my inspiration since I could remember, but now every time I think of her, it's not the same. I didn't know why, or rather I didn't know what had changed until I woke up a couple of weeks ago and realized you weren't there. They say that the gift are those ideas you have before you drift off to sleep, but the giver is that one you think of when you first wake. But that's not enough. I need you there to give me what I need every day to dance, Soul."_

She makes things difficult; she always has and he decides she always will. He presses the back of his hand against his eyes, rubbing them out furiously because his blood has thinned and it makes his head light and his hands tremble. He exhales heavily, telling himself that a drop in blood pressure is certainly not the way to go about this, because he is not the type to become jell-o at the sound of a confession. He is not. This is what he tells himself as he drops his hand and tightens his grip on his phone.

"Did you just tell me you love me by using a cheesy quote?"

_"Ch-cheesy?! It's __not__ cheesy!" _

"You DID quote a book!"

_"I-I did not—I just—so what if I did, it worked, didn't it?!"_

He laughs. He laughs because of all the things he expected from her, of all the ways he expected her to tell him, he did not expect this. He didn't expect her to toss it back at him using similar methods like his. Yet he knows he should not have expected anything else from her and the contradictory train of thought makes his grin wider. Because Maka is a muse herself; a picture-perfect ballerina in a music box that locks him away with its soft tones. She is a song that binds his heart, a passion and an art in and of itself.

"Alright."

_"Alright?" _she repeats, perking up.

"Y'think you can ask Arachne if she minds me dropping in around eight at night for an interview?" Soul says on his way to his bedroom. He flips open his laptop and turns it on. "I don't wanna' take a morning flight 'cause then I'll be too groggy to play well."

_"You'll do it?" _She asks, breath baited. _"You'll come and play? You'll come here?"_

"You owe me an all-you-can-eat...and a punch for being an asshole," he adds wryly and crooks a smile when he hears her squeal on the other side, rushing him the address. Her voice pitches and cracks on certain words and he commits these small details to memory. Perhaps he is a lovesick fool, as he books a ticket for next week and she promises to tell Arachne of the plans. Perhaps his brother is right and he is playing a dangerous game with her, as he meets her at the airport at five pm sharp and hugs her so hard it feels like she'll break in his arms. Perhaps he purposely bends to her will every time it appears like he'll have the power, but he doesn't mind the bruise on his shoulder from her well-placed punch or the scratch marks down his back when he wakes up the next morning. And as he meets Arachne Gorgon, hears the sultry voice that belies a gravity that makes him gulp, he'll try his best to play as well as Maka believes him to play. His brother may be right, he _is_ playing a dangerous game.

It's a game to see how close to the edge one can get without going over.

The only problem is, the closer one gets to the edge, the less one cares about falling.

He looks right, finds her standing by the stage. She mouths the words that have kept him going this entire time, eyes bright and smile warm.

Soul decides he'll take his chances as he plays the song he first played that day at the dance studio.

* * *

**A/N**:This story is now complete! I hope you all liked it! I figured drawing out the end would be too cheesy/repetitive so I eventually decided on this ending. Some of you may not like it, but I am satisfied with it. And you can all guess that he got the job. I'm not as cruel as to keep them separated haha.

_Scarlett._


End file.
